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I held my pistol to the prisoner’s head. Snow fell on his face, and melted instantly on his forehead. He shivered, but kept his eyes open, staring at me.

“Is this truly necessary?” I asked the commissar.

“It’s an order. Shoot the traitor,” said the commissar. Her voice was low for a woman, and her hair was shaved as a show of loyalty to her masters.

“And, why is it necessary for you to give this order?” I asked.

“How dare you question a commissar!” said the commissar.

I smirked and said, “How about I question a cousin, then?”

My cousin the commissar stomped her foot. Since we were both formerly residents of this village, we had both ended up here thanks to sheer bureaucratic oversight.

“The prisoner is a deserter, and my orders from the politburo demand that all deserters be shot,” said the commissar.

“And it’s necessary for deserters to be shot?” I asked.

“Of course! If they are unwilling to fight and die for the nation, they are selfishly trying to let others die in their place.”

“I didn’t ask if deserters being shot was fair, I asked if it was necessary,” I said.

My index finger was in pain, holding the metallic pistol trigger in this bleak, cold winter.

“Well there must be a punishment for desertion, otherwise millions of our selfish species would run away every time there’s a war. There needs to be a punishment more dangerous and shameful than being killed by the enemy - that being death from one’s own countrymen.”

“Well it’s necessary for me that I don’t kill him,” I said.

“Oh really? Do you have a signed order from the politburo demanding that this particular lowlife is deserving of leniency?”

“No, I have orders from a higher order than the politburo.” I said.

My cousin, my dear cousin, pulled out her own pistol.

“Long live the republic,” she said.

“I love you,” I said to the prisoner as I turned to face my cousin.